


Lioness

by Sanguine_tenshi



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cersei is the narrator, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Multi, Please have mercy, Time Travel, Unreliable Narrator, author does not speak Spanish, please, usual Got warnings apply
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:53:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22693612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanguine_tenshi/pseuds/Sanguine_tenshi
Summary: Cersei dies the way she lived. A proud lioness. She dies with a snarl on her face as she takes her last enemy down with her…and then she wakes up on her wedding day. And so her tale begins anew.This story was inspired by Copperonthetongue’s‘If Wishes Were Horses’.
Relationships: Cersei Lannister/Jon Snow, cannon ones
Comments: 31
Kudos: 143





	1. A hero after all

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Yes, I know, I should be working on my other stories, yet here we are. More info at the bottom.

The last thing Cersei sees before she dies is blue eyes. Unnatural, glowing blue eyes set in a gaunt face. Its skin is a pale grey and stretched over bone tightly. Horns of pure ice protrude from its head in a parody of a crown. It walks towards her, slowly. It brings snow and ice with it. As soon as it touches a new part of the ground the ice spreads like a disease. It covers the floor and snakes up the pillars. Blue ice shards bloom like flowers. She might have thought them beautiful, if for not what they represented…an end. And the thing gets closer and closer. She hears its armor clink together as it moves, black plates that suck away any light that falls upon them.

Their eyes are locked together. Green fighting against blue.

As the fires go out, as the light is sucked away, Cersei doesn’t squint. As the warmth disappears, Cersei doesn’t shiver. As the air in her lungs friezes, Cersei’s breath doesn’t stutter. As the nightmare stares her down, Cersei doesn’t look away. As blue cuts her down to the soul, the green doesn’t waver. No. No, instead Cersei takes a deep breath, her lungs burn, her fingers grip the throne and go numb, she lifts her head and stares the thing down instead.

Cersei feels no fear as the thing comes closer and blue ice creeps up her legs.

The last thing Cersei feels is regret.

Regret for losing all her children. And it is only now, now that she stares death in the face, that she can admit, even just to herself, that she had played a part in their deaths. She had allowed Joffrey to become too arrogant. She had allowed Myrcella to become too trusting. She had allowed Tommen to be too soft.

And she hadn’t allowed the last one to even live.

She wants to put a hand to her stomach, to hopefully feel it kick one last time…but her arms are frozen to the throne and will not obey.

Cersei feels regret for not killing Robert sooner. For not seizing power sooner, power she deserves and power she was born to wield. For dying so soon after finally taking hold of that power, so soon after putting on that crown and so soon after sitting on that throne.

Cersei feels regret for letting Jon Snow slip right through her fingers. She regrets overlooking him that first time in Winterfell before he ran to the Wall and joined the Night’s Watch. And then for allowing the Dragon Whore to snatch him before she could. He had been loyal to her, right until the moment she had gone down with her beasts at the Neck. She wonders what having someone like Jon Snow loyal to her and only her would be like. She wonders if her children might have lived if she had had his loyalty and honor just for herself, if Jon had been twisted right around her finger. He would have kept her children safe, if he had given his word, or he would have died trying.

The ice demon is standing right in front of her. Cersei has no more time to think, no time to feel. The demon stares down at her with those too blue eyes and her green eyes flash defiantly back, just as stubborn as ever.

The ice crawls up her neck and to her face. Her skin starts to grey. Fury burns in her stomach. She will not go down bowing. She will not die one of them. She hears her frozen fingers crack as she grips the throne tighter. Her skin cracks and bleeds as she pulls her lips back and snarls. She snarls at this demon like the vicious, proud lioness she is. Lions do not bow. She will not bow. Not before this demon. Not before anyone ever again.

Icey skin creaks as the monster smiles down at her in victory.

And then green flames swallow the whole city.

And Cersei dies.

Cersei dies a queen.

Cersei dies and takes down the Night King, his dragons and half his cold dead army… green consumes them all.

Cersei dies and gives Westeros a fighting chance in the war against the dead.

Cersei dies a despised woman yet goes down in history and then legend as a hero.

Cersei dies and then wakes up.

And that is where this tale truly begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how’s that for a start. This is more of a prologue, that’s why it’s so short, the next chapter will be much longer. Yes, I’m working on the fifth chapter for TNAYH, it is slow going and I am busy with real life, so it’s not going to be out anytime soon.
> 
>  **Inspiration:** This story was inspired by Copperonthetongue’s ‘If Wishes Were Horses’. And yes, I did get the authors permission to write this. It is a one-shot story with about 3K words. It’s not necessary to read that story to understand this one, but I will be using her story as a sort of a base for this Cersei’s personality and motivation, so if you want to get a feel for her now feel free to read that story.
> 
> See ya in the next one. Chao!


	2. Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei wakes up and yet the dream continues to play out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yellow! Who remembers this fic? I certainly don’t.

Cersei wakes up slowly. Her mind is murky with sleep. She still sees the dream playing in front of her eyes. She blinks her eyes open and stares at the orange sky through her window. She just lays there for a long moment and enjoys it. The bed is warm, and the covers are draped lightly over her. The air is so nice and hot. She stretches, like a house cat after a good meal and a nice nap. Her hands extend up above her and her torso curves up as she just enjoys herself. Nothing hurts. She’s warm. Everything around her is soft. It feels glorious. A long, pleased sigh leaves her, a purr almost.

And then she snaps back to reality.

Her eyes open wide as she quickly sits up in bed and stares. She stares at the room she’s in. It is all beautiful silks and expensive furniture, rich wood, and thick fluffy rugs. The colors around her are red and brown and dark green…warm, vibrant.

Goose bumps appear all over her as her skin tingles and Cersei gives a full body shiver. Suddenly she’s cold, so very, very cold. She wraps the covers tightly around herself, they are laughably thin, nothing but a sheer piece of fabric and she still shivers. This wouldn’t keep the winter out of she set it on fire.

Scared green eyes snap to the fireplace in her rooms. It is a small thing, ornate. She stumbles to it, the sheets dragging behind her on the cold, stone floor. Her feet are bare. As she walks the cold seeps into her soles. And for a moment she is back in the throne room, ice climbing up her legs, with that ice demon. Her legs ache. Cersei trips and stumbles to her knees, crimson sheets pool around her. Her breath is coming out in quick puffs, eyes wide and terrified. She is alone, she knows, but the shadows of the room are playing tricks on her. 

Fire.

She needs fire.

She needs fire now.

She drags herself closer to the fireplace. There are a few logs stacked right next to it, dust covers their surface. Everything she needs is here, covered in a thick layer of dust from disuse. Her hands shake as she tries to get a spark. She dry sobs when it won’t start. The ice seeps into her veins and continues to her lungs. Cersei cannot breathe. The air won’t enter her lungs. It freezes in her throat. Fire, she needs fire now. Those things are coming, the dead, the demons, the ice, the winter, and she needs fire. Cersei almost cries from relief when she finally, finally gets a spark.

As the fire crackles happily, Cersei merely sits there. She sits there and stares at the fire, clutching red fabric as close as she can. The sheets cut into her neck and her hands are white from pulling, but she cannot let go. Her breath slowly calms down and she comes back to herself. She’s not cold, she realizes.

She’s not in the throne room.

The Night King and his army aren’t breaking down her doors.

Slowly she looks away from the red flames, warm and safe and crackling, to the window. The sky has lightened to a bright yellow and a brilliant blue. There are no clouds in the sky, just a vast expanse of blue. No snow is falling. Almost as if in a trance she gets up and walks towards the balcony.

The sky is not dark with heavy clouds. It doesn’t feel like it will fall upon all their heads at any moment. Instead it feels like it stretches out forever. The sea is a sparkling blue, no ice covers its surface. Red and orange rooftops stretch out below her, no snow covers them. The air is warm, it doesn’t freeze in her lungs, doesn’t come out in white puffs. She feels the light breeze glide over her face. A shaky hand leaves her cocoon. She runs her hand across the railing. The stone is warm under her hand, warm from the sun, not so cold it makes her bones creak and her skin stick.

Cersei takes a long moment to just stare at the city below. People are just starting to wake up, she can see a few of them milling about, running from their homes to stores or stalls. Trying to avoid the midday heat no doubt, fools the lot of them. Her fingers just barely touch the stone railing, they continue their glide across the warm surface. It is warm, so, so very warm. It feels like the most extravagant luxury a person can get. A sound that is somewhere between a laugh and a sob leaves Cersei. Her hand glides over the railing, it is so warm under her fingers. She remembers how cold the throne was under her, how it made her skin prickle, how it made her joints creak. How the cold seeped slowly through the many layers of her gown.

The stone is warm, and tears fall from Cersei’s cheeks.

She grips the railing; it is so warm here. Was it all just a dream? It must have been. It couldn’t have been. She bows her head as sobs shake her body. Something brushes her cheek, feather light and Cersei startles. Her hand leaves the railing to grip whatever it was. Cersei pulls and it hurts. The pain is sharp and grounding. She stares at the thing in her hand. It looks like strands of spun gold. They seem to mock her as they sparkle in the morning sun. It takes a moment, a too long moment, to realize that she is holding her own hair.

She just stares at the strands, gives a gentle tug just to make sure, make sure that her mind isn’t playing tricks on her, but no, it really is her hair. It is just as soft as she remembers, like strands of finest silks. It shines so beautifully in the morning sun. Something snaps in her, her teeth grind against each other. That is impossible. It is all some cruel trick, she thinks. After what those uptight religious vermin had done to her. It is a trick. Someone is making a mockery of her. Whose doing this is she doesn’t know, but she will make them pay. And pay dearly they shall.

Cersei twists around, almost frantic, and completely furious. She would not be made fun of like this, not again. She looks around the room, she needs something sharp, anything will do. A gleam at the round breakfast table catches her eye and Cersei almost stumbles to it in her haste. There among half-finished fruit and cake crumbs lies a knife. It is a short thing, with a golden handle and a silver blade. Intricate carvings cover the handle and climb u the back of the blade.

It is beautiful, it is expensive, it is extravagant.

Cersei doesn’t care. She grabs the knife securely and stomps to the nearest vanity. The plush chair is welcoming. She grabs a handful of long golden strands, places the knife close to her skull, looks to the looking glass and…and then just stares at the person she sees there.

The fire crackles softly in the background and Cersei drops the knife. It makes no sound as it falls to the fluffy carpet beneath her.

The person that stares back at Cersei is young, so very young. A mere child still. A hand goes to her cheek and the figure does the same. Cersei stares at herself. She looks so young. Fingers run down her cheeks, there are tear lines but no age lines. Her cheeks are smooth and soft to the touch, plump even. The skin stretches tightly over her features. Her eyes are wide and bright, full of life still. Green. Alive.

Young, so young.

She hadn’t looked so young since she married Robert, since the drunken fool stole her youth, her beauty, her body. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, tries to calm down, to think rationally. This must be some jape or punishment. It cannot be real. Some god getting their hands on her soul and punishing her for everything she had done. She opens her eyes and stares at the woman in the mirror. She looks so beautiful, so unburdened by the world.

For the life of her she cannot figure out how this is supposed to be a punishment.

She’s warm. She’s young. She’s beautiful.

This doesn’t seem like a punishment to her.

If this were a punishment it would have to be worse than her last moments alive. She should be cold, freezing, down to her very bones. She should be old and ugly and wrinkly and weak.

Instead she’s here.

This seems more like a reward than anything else.

Unless…

Unless this was all to make her feel secure. To trick her into being happy only to pull the rug right from under her feet. To give her everything she had ever wanted only to take it away just as she gets comfortable. Nails dig into her cheek and Cersei welcome’s the pain. She would not let them trick her like this. She refused. She looks down to the knife. Perhaps she should cut her hair after all. Show whoever was doing this to her that she wasn’t falling for it.

Just as she’s about to reach for the blade the doors to her chambers open and four handmaidens enter. They giggle happily among themselves. So happy, so careless. They don’t even notice her at first, so occupied by their conversation, a simple conversation about knights and weddings and children and dresses and hairstyles. How long has it been since she had such a simple conversation? Years, decades even, it had been so long, she has forgotten how to have such simple conversations.

“Lady Cersei.” One of them simpers at her happily in greeting, all bright smiles and trusting eyes. 

“We’ll prepare your bath in a moment.” A different one of them chirps at her, a soft apologetic smile pulling at her lip.

Cersei sits there frozen as they flutter around the room like a flock of small birds. Again, she is struck by how young and happy and just simply carefree they are. They skip around the room, a whirlwind of colourful skirts and long hair. Two make the bed, one carries a beautiful white dress, another jewelry, all gold and rubies and emeralds and made of small intricate details, fragile, and all of them are giggling and gossiping like there is nothing wrong in the world. Like no one and nothing can hurt them. Like this city isn’t filled with power hungry monsters. Cersei sits by the vanity and feels like she is a whole kingdom away from these girls.

She thinks one of them might have asked her a question, but Cersei has no will to answer or even pay attention to them. Two of them skip out of her rooms to get warm water for the bath. Cersei watches them disappear from the corner of her eye. 

"My lady?" One of them says from right next to her and Cersei jumps in surprise. She'd been so focused on the others she hadn't heard this one come up to her. She stares at the soft warm smile and feels out of place. She doesn't remember this girl. Her face doesn't bring any memories and that makes her worried. She doesn't know who this one is loyal to.

She doesn't remember any of them, she realizes. She knows none of them, her handmaidens are all girls she trusts. Girls that are loyal to her and only her. Girls that wish to get into her good graces and stay there. Something’s wrong, something’s very wrong and she doesn’t know what exactly.

The brow on the one next to her starts to crease with worry as Cersei continues to stare at her without answering. And ah yes, she thinks she remembers her now. Arice. A third daughter of a small lord from the Westerlands. A girl entirely too trusting and sweet for Kings Landing. She hadn't lasted even a month last time. Last time...

Almost in a daze Cersei gets up and walks back to the balcony. She can’t breather anymore, she needs air. “Must be the nerves.” As she passes the handmaidens one of them whispers to the others. One of them nods knowingly. Cersei hurries her steps. She needs to get away. Away from them. Away from her thoughts. Away from her suspicions. It's so crowded and she feels off balance. 

She closes the doors behind her, has half a mind to lock them too, but that would be a tad too suspicious. You can never afford suspicion in this city. Cersei stumbles and leans against the wall. Her knees give out under her and suddenly she is sitting on the ground again. Her sleeping gown is thin so thin and Cersei is cold.

She feels like she should be crying, like she should be sobbing. She thinks she should be screaming and yelling and raging and denying. She needs comfort she needs to punch something she needs a hug she needs to break something. 

Instead she shivers, her throat is painfully tight. There is a sob stuck in her throat and she can't breathe. She feels sick. 

Cersei closes her eyes and just tries to breathe. 

In and out, in and out, in and out, in…

Suddenly it all goes away, and Cersei feels empty. 

Numb. 

Her eyes stare forward, and she sees nothing.

That is how one of the handmaidens finds her, the oldest one she thinks. The girl gently pulls her to her feet. Says that it's all normal that every girl feels this way on her wedding day. She steers Cersei inside and towards the bath. She says that the bedding is the worst part but that it will be over quickly and there is nothing to worry about. She says Cersei is lucky, she shall be Queen soon and his grace is quite the handsome man.

Cersei pays her no mind. 

They scrub her clean until her skin is a soft pink. Her hair is washed and her whole body is lathered in smelling oils. She is pushed from the bath and into a chair. Hair dried and combed until it looks like finer than strands of spun gold and feels softer than silk. Her handmaidens gossip about the ceremony as they do her hair. They talk about who is going to be there as they twist her hair into complicated braids. They whisper about who is sleeping with who as they pin all the braids in place. 

They pull her up and into the pure white dress. Cersei remembers this dress well. It hugs her curves, reveals her whole shoulders and none of her cleavage. It flares out at her waist and the sleeves touch the ground. Fine lace covers the whole dress. She had felt so beautiful in this dress once upon a time. She had felt like a queen, like a conquer. Shed felt like the whole world was at her feet. Like the most beautiful woman in the world. She’d expected Robert to look at her and only her. For him to realize how lucky he was to marry her. For him to realize how special she was. For him to fall in love with her at first sight.

Now she feels like a passenger in someone else's body and the woman that stares from the looking glass is a complete stranger. 

The one in the looking glass is the most beautiful woman of the seven kingdoms. She is a young pretty little thing. Thin. Soft. Completely unprepared for what awaits her. For her drunken whore of a husband. For the nest of vipers that coils under her feet. Yet is arrogant enough to think that she knows, that she understands, that she is prepared and that she shall win. She is arrogant enough to think that Robert’s heart would belong to her and only her. That after today Lyanna Stark would become nothing but a distant memory.

Such a pretty, dumb, little bird.

"You look breath taking my lady." One of the handmaidens gasps from behind her. Cersei’s eyes flicker up and make eye contact with the girl through the looking glass. The girl smiles widely at her. She remembers this one too. She'd been the first one to betray her. To a fourth son from the Vale no less. Poor girl had hoped for a marriage, too bad the son had already been married. Her head had decorated the castle walls for six months.

There is a knock on the door and then Jaime is there. He looks young too, boyish even, innocent. His smile is smug and charming. Her handmaidens stutter out a greeting all red faced, coy smiles on their lips. 

Cersei’s insides burn. 

"Ladies," he greets them bright teeth on show. "May I speak to my lady sister alone?" All of them slowly walk out flashing Jaime sweet and falsely shy smiles as they pass him. Vermin the lot of them.

Cersei considers strangling him right then and there for them to see. For them to see his skin turn purple. For them to see him struggling and gasping for air. Instead she turns back to the looking glass. To the figure of a stranger.

The doors close and then there is Jaime in the looking glass, right over her shoulder. She wants to break the glass, to scream, to rage, to grab a large piece and slash Jaime’s throat. She does none of that and instead merely stares at him face blank. This Jaime is so different to the one she knew. She knew a man. This is nothing but a boy. Young, foolish…just like the girl in the looking glass.

"You look beautiful sweet sister." He smirks at her as he approaches, voice husky and words sweet. He slowly turns her. Green eyes flitter over her face. There is nothing but worship there. Worship and love. It had been so long since he had looked at her like that. The man she remembered looked at her with love, but a tainted one. There were times when Jaime looked at her like one would a stranger. There had been times when he looked at her like she was a monster ready to devour him whole. Like he was aware of the vengeful beast hiding beneath her breast, a beast that watched through her eyes and waited. This Jaime holds nothing but love for her.

There is a hand on her cheek, the touch soft, feather like...warm, so very warm. Alive. She'd come to expect the cold touch of Jaime’s right hand. This Jaime had both hands. "Do you think our King will be satisfied?" His tone was light and joking. As if such a thing was even up for debate. As if Robert had any other choice. She’d smirked at his words, once upon a time.

His eyes are so bright, so full of love and devotion. It's as if she's The Maiden herself given flesh. But Cersei knows, she remembers. Jaime doesn't share her ambition, the fool. He could be whatever he wished. He could have been Lord Lannister. He could have claimed the throne for himself. But no, all he wants is Cersei. All he ever wanted had been Cersei. Only Cersei. Always Cersei. In any way he could have her. 

And it’s all a lie. 

His devotion has a limit. He'd always been a bleeding heart. He'd always been in love with knights and honour and loyalty and love songs. He would have been just like Eddard Stark, Cersei thinks, nothing but an honourable fool. Except Aerys happened, the war happened, wildfire happened and after everything the honourable Eddard Stark had looked at Jaime and saw nothing but oath breaking scum. The literal embodiment of all that Jaime wished to be spat in his face. Jaime's tongue had turned sharp and his words biting, but even after all that the bleeding heart remained. Hidden under all the sharp edges. Hidden even from Cersei herself.

And Cersei now knew that. Knew exactly where it was. Her hand hovers above it. Fingertips barely touching his shirt. If only she could sink her nails in, grab it, squeeze, remove it. Remove the one stain she could not forgive.

Jaime never was able to do what needed to be done. He would never put their family above everything and everyone else. Jaime lacked that one thing Cersei had. That viciousness. That viciousness that she got from her father. That viciousness that was needed to erase their enemies from existence.

There is a thumb on her lips. 

Cersei wants to suck it into her mouth, to run her tongue along it and taste honey. She wants to suck it into her mouth and bite down, rip it off, spit it back at Jaime and taste copper. 

Cersei wants to run her fingers along his cheeks, run her thumbs over his eyelids and feel silk. She wants to claw his cheeks until they bleed and drive her thumbs into his eyeballs until they pop like overripe grapes.

Cersei wants to kiss his lips softly. Wants to feel them pillow her own. She wants to chase that innocence of their younger days. She wonders if he would taste like a sweet summer wine. She wants that love that fills his eyes to fill her, to warm her, to reassure her. To fill her and make her forget.

Jaime's eyes are closed, and his lips are on hers.

They are rough and chapped. They drag against hers roughly. Their lips part, tongues meet in the middle. Ash. He tastes like ash, like betrayal, like broken promises. Her mouth is suddenly dry. Cersei grabs at his hair pulls him closer. Jaime grunts, hands fall to her hips and pull her closer. She chases that warmth, that sweetness, that love, that devotion, that promise of forever. It tastes bitter, broken, and old. 

There is nothing and Cersei is cold.

She wants him out. She wants him gone. She wants him dead.

Cersei pushes Jaime roughly away. He stumbles, clearly confused, clearly lost. She wants to push him further, towards the balcony and out into the open air. Wants to watch him fall, grab and nothing. Wants to see fear and betrayal fill his eyes.

"Get out!" She snarls at him.

She’s not sure she’ll ever be able to kill him.

Jaime is confused. He wants to argue, to ask, to plead. But she growls, narrows her eyes, glares, and pulls he lip back to show her teeth. He's confused and rejected. This Cersei had never looked at her twin so cruelly. This was an expression that belonged on Queen Cersei. It was a look that was made for her drunk of a useless husband. Not for Jaime, sweet Jaime, devoted Jaime, her only love Jaime. Never for her other half, her mirror image.

Jaime stumbles out of the door and green eyes follow him out. 

Unbidden, the memories come to her. Memories of what they had done last time. They'd kissed passionately. Jaime's hands were under her skirts within seconds. They'd fucked right against the door. So full of themselves, so sure no one would ever know, so sure no one would ever find out. So in love. They’d been above everyone else. Cersei had seen it as a final farewell, Jaime had seen it as a beginning. Robert had been entirely too drunk to notice anything amiss. But then the drunken slob had said that cursed name and Cersei had sworn to never bear the man's child. She’d gone to Jaime the next morning.

They'd been so arrogant, so foolish, so full of themselves. 

Now Cersei knows where it all leads, and she refuses to be with either of them. One would never love her and the other would betray her when she needed him the most. 

Except...what is then left for her? Who is there for her?

Numbness starts to set in as her thoughts spiral further.

What is then left for her? Robert would never love her. Jaime would betray her. She would never birth her children, her sweet, precious children. Her father sees her as nothing more than a pawn, cattle to be sold to the highest bidder. She cannot even look at Tyrion without wanting to squeeze his neck. There is no one in this world she could trust. Nothing but bootlickers, turncloaks and backstabbers.

Cersei feels empty. 

Is this to be her punishment? Is she to relive her entire life alone, empty, and unloved?

Cersei feels nothing. 

She is alone. 

Her handmaidens are back. They flutter around her and chipper at each. She thinks one of them chippers something reassuring at her. Cersei hears nothing and eventually the girl gives up with a worried glance.

Cersei feels empty, she feels numb. It feels like she's watching someone else's story.

She's pushed and prodded and guided. Cersei goes. She goes out of her rooms, through hallways, down the stairs. There are more people around her. Cersei blinks and she's seated upon a horse. 

The beast beneath her is calm and quiet as everyone runs around them as people and horses move. It is so loud. Other horses neigh and snort and stomp their feet. Armors clank, people shout, yell, push and pull and run. Cersei and her mount are in their own bubble of silence. Cersei's fingers sink into the mare’s mane. It's long and lose and soft to the touch...and just a shade paler than Cersei's own hair. Just like Myrcella’s hair had been. Like it will never be.

No tears come.

Cersei's eyes are clear and hard like two glass marbles. 

She feels nothing.

They file out in a line, in a parade, through the city like a long winding snake. Knights and guards and Lords and Ladies, the new King and the future Queen. The small folk yell and cheer at them, hands raised towards them. Children mingle among them and look up in awe. Cersei sees many eyes sparkle up at her. Admiration, adoration, envy.

Once upon a time she'd waved back. She'd felt she deserved all the attention and admiration. She'd turned up her nose and puffed up her chest. Let them all see a lady, a queen, a goddess. 

Now she sits silent and straight in her saddle. Her eyes glued to Robert, to the new king, to her future husband as the man threw handful after handful of dragons into the crowd. He'd always been so wasteful. 

Cersei wants to slip out of her saddle and onto the stone road below so everyone, both man and horse, may walk all over her, so they may end her suffering. So, this torture ends.

Cersei stays.

It is only once they are in front of the Sept that her eyes look up. She almost forgot what the Sept looked like. She remembers nothing but stone and ash and euphoria of victory. Now the white walls tower over her, shadow her. As she walks up the steps, she expects green flames to consume her. She stops in front of the doors; they open to darkness. Cersei stares. She expects fingers made of green flames to flicker into existence and reach for her, whisper to her, call her to join them. She would gladly walk into their embrace. Instead her father urges her forward, subtly, nothing more than a light touch on her lower back, not even a push and Cersei goes.

It’s all a blur to her. Images overlap in front of her eyes. Her own wedding, Joffrey’s wedding, her imprisonment by the High Sparrow, and green flames and ashes. They get married under the star of the seven. Cersei is merely going through the motions. Robert wraps a cloak around her shoulders, gold and black. It feels like heavy chains and she cannot bring herself to care. Does it matter in the end? What is there for her to fight for? She’d been here once before. Fought all those battles with all her might. And what did it bring her?

Betrayal, death, loneliness, winter.

A ribbon is warped around their hands. Words are said. Cersei repeats some. She doesn’t know what she is saying, her lips move and form the words, but Cersei doesn’t understand. Someone else speaks through her body. She’s not even sure she is saying the right words. She’d said them so long ago.

She hadn’t meant them back then either.

Robert turns and she follows. That is the first time she is truly looking at him since she came back to this wretched time. She must look up, so far up, to see his face. He is handsome, young, dark haired and muscular. And his eyes are so clear and blue. It strikes her then. How must they look to others, like they stepped out of a fairy tale or a love song. But soon they will see the truth. Robert’s outsides shall match his insides. Soon enough he will be back to looking like the fat drunk he truly is.

For just a moment Robert looks worried as he leans down to kiss her. But it is just a moment, his eyes are closed, people cheer and clap, and Cersei wants to throw up right in his face.

And so, the ceremony ends, and she is Queen Cersei Baratheon again.

The chains feel heavier than the first time, this time she knows what they mean, where they lead, what awaits her.

They are paraded back through the city. This time Cersei rides next to Robert. They don’t look at each other.

The feast is just as loud as it had been. People yell, drink, dance, sing, laugh. This isn’t celebrating just her marriage, Cersei knows. This is about more. This is about the war ending, about soldier getting a break, about a tyrant dying. It is about winning. Robert is the loudest of them all. He talks to everyone. He sings the loudest. He raises his glass often. He calls for cheers. He spins many ladies and wenches around the room.

Cersei sits there and watches it all. She eats no food, has no appetite to speak of. Jaime throws her worried glances. She ignores him. All she does the whole night is sit, watch, and drink. Her wine is sweet, Cersei tastes ashes. Then her father is there, hand extended towards her asking for a dance. This is for appearances. This is for any last-minute demands he has for her. Cersei goes.

Their dance is stiff and formal and cold. Jaime’s worried eyes follow them all the way.

“You will do your duty,” her father hisses at her. Cersei’s gut clenches and she feels fury. Their eyes meet, Cersei is about to hiss back at him…someone calls for the bedding.

She is pulled away from her father and twisted around. Fury dies down. She is twisted and twirled and stripped and pushed into a room. Robert is close behind her. Giggling women push him in, and he stumbles with a booming laugh. Cersei sits down, her vison swims, it’s the wine she tells herself.

He’s on top of her then. Big hands on her shoulders pushing her down, he’s mumbling, his lips are on her neck. He smells like bad wine and mostly drools on her. She’s not sure who is more drunk. The wine burns in her veins and, Cersei is warm. It’s been so long since she felt warm, so very warm. Her skin tingles. There is a sharp pain, the wine soon numbs it. Robert grunts above her, one hand bruises her hip, his beard scratches her neck. There is drool by her ear. He gives a loud grunt and then…

“Lya…Lyanna, my Lyanna.” He almost sobs the name, finishes, and then falls next to her.

Fury curls in her gut for just a moment. It’s an old hurt, something she shall never forgive and never forget. She cares not for Robert and his devotion to a dead girl.

In her dreams Lyanna went to Rhaegar willingly, just to hurt Robert. Cersei would have done the same.

His snores fill the room and Cersei stares at the celling. Her vision swims, her skin burns, and she feels nothing. It feels like it takes forever to sit up. The floor moves under her feet, she moves slowly. She cleans herself off and then stares at Robert, at her imbecile of a husband.

She could kill him.

She thinks suddenly. Nothing short of dragons returning to King’s Landing would wake him up now. She would just need to sink a knife into the soft flesh of his neck, right under his jaw. It would be easy. He wouldn’t even struggle. Wouldn’t even realize what is happening. Or she could just put a pillow over his face and put her weight on it. It would be so very easy. Then she looks down at Robert, the pillow is heavy in her hands. It feels like it is filled with stones.

When did she get here?

The world lurches and twists and she is laying down next to him her knuckles are white on the pillow. She has no strength to move, to get up. She is so close. It would be so easy. It would put a stop to it all.

Her vision grows dark. She fears falling asleep. She fears waking up. She fears waking up back in the throne room, in the cold. She fears waking up next to Robert, in the warmth.

Her eyes close and she knows no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And cut. That would be it for this chapter. I will try to have the next chapter ready soon. I make no promises as 2020 seems to like throwing curveballs.   
> Also, I WILL be ignoring season 8 completely.  
> See ya soon…hopefully.


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